


breathing in snowflakes

by multifandomstylinson (ViolaWay)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Dealer!Moriarty, M/M, Prostitute!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/multifandomstylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, I have another little business. On the side. I might be interested in letting you have a go, darling. If you asked nicely.”</p><p>(There's a lot Sherlock will do for cocaine.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathing in snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'the a team' by ed sheeran

It started when Mycroft died. His mother had never paid much attention to him and his father was dead—killed years earlier, although no-one would tell him how he’d died (and Sherlock would have worked it out if he’d wanted to know but he didn’t)—and Mycroft had really been the only person left. He was an annoying, overprotective older brother, sure, but he was all Sherlock had. And then he was gone. Dead. There was a degree of permanence to that word that didn’t sit well with Sherlock, and although he didn’t cry—he never cried—he couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt closer to it.

That was when he found cocaine. Because there was no-one to stop him anymore, and that was just it, wasn’t it? _No-one cared enough to stop him._

So he found a nice, young dealer and his mother gave him enough pocket money that he could get as high as a kite whenever he felt like it, whenever he wanted to escape the loneliness that was becoming all too familiar.

He ran into a bit of a problem when his mum died. And then he was really was alone, and the money was put on hold until he was eighteen, and he was going to be sent into care with only ten pounds a week and he just couldn’t deal with that, so he ran away. It wasn’t that he was addicted. He just didn’t need them.

And the problem then, of course, was that he had _no_ money.

“Jim…” he begged (and he’d never begged before, hated the feeling, but he had no other option). “ _Please…_ ”

“Sorry, sweetie. No cash and I can’t sell it to you.”

“There’s got to be a way…”

“There is, honey, but you won’t do it, will you? Too sweet and innocent…”

“Give me the fucking cocaine,” Sherlock demanded, but his voice was weak.

“You know, I have another little business. On the side. I might be interested in letting you have a go, darling. If you asked nicely.”

“Jim…fuck…”

“You’ll do anything, won’t you, sugar? Well, I have an idea of what you can do for me…”

***

“You ever had sex before?” Jim asked, and Sherlock shook his head mutely. If he was honest, he’d never wanted to. The idea just didn’t appeal to him all that much. But now…

“Sweetie, I’m gonna strip, and you’re gonna suck me off, and then you can get your coke, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, but it wasn’t okay. It hadn’t been okay since Mycroft died.

Jim shuffled out of his trousers and pulled down his boxers in a flash, and Sherlock glanced around the grimy alleyway for a second before dropping to his knees gingerly, shuffling closer to Moriarty. He didn’t have time to prepare before Jim’s dick was being roughly pushed between his lips. Sherlock resisted the urge to simply bite down, and tried sucking hesitantly on the tip, knowing that if he did a shit job there’d be no way of getting his fix.

Moriarty gasped and shoved his hands into Sherlock’s hair, thrusting forwards and making Sherlock almost choked, tears gathering in his eyes as Jim continued to abuse his throat.

It was over in a matter of minutes, spunk squirting down Sherlock’s throat and clogging his mouth with the foul substance. Tears were flowing freely down his face, his mouth and lips felt raw and damaged beyond repair. The taste of Moriarty’s cock filled him with disgust and he spat into the gutter after pulling away.

“You’re good, kid,” Jim said. “I could set you up with a job, if you wanted. You’d get a lot of money.”

That was when it hit Sherlock—when he realised what he’d done. He’d sold sex. He was a fucking whore, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care.

Moriarty handed him another bag of cocaine.

***

Weeks passed, and Sherlock learnt how to enjoy sex. For the first week, he was exclusively Jim’s, to be used at the man’s disposal: blowjobs, rimming, and—finally—actual sex. Moriarty had pounded into him with such force and brutality—and with no preparation—and Sherlock had cried again, in pain and shock and disgust.

But then Moriarty had ‘introduced’ him to some of his friends. First was Moran, who was bigger and bulkier and had a dick that felt like it was literally splitting Sherlock in two. Then came a woman, Irene, and he didn’t know quite how to deal with that but he did it anyway.

So after a few weeks, he was ‘ready for the streets’.

And that was even worse. Drunk men (and women) slobbering all over him, smelling of liquor and cheap beer, some of them wanting him to bottom and some of them wanting him to top, and all of them treating him like he was scum.

Until one day.

And this day started like any other, with cocaine up a nostril and a pounding in his head that wouldn’t go away. The evening rolled around and was the same as any other, and Sherlock waited. Waited for the first drunk dickhead to stumble out of the bar around the corner and run into him, the seventeen-year-old in the tight purple shirt with too many buttons undone, and he waited for them to realise, for it to dawn across their face as they realised what he was, what he could do for them.

He waited for the money.

“Come on, John, he’s the best I’ve ever had, and he’s cheap, too!”

“I don’t need a prostitute, Mike, I need a date.”

“You need to get laid.”

“You’re drunk.”

Sherlock’s head perked up with interest. He remembered Mike—he remembered everyone—a fat man from last week, who made sounds like a wounded dog while he came. He’d deduced that Mike worked in a crummy old hospital in East London, and now he wondered if his companion worked there alongside him.

“I might be drunk, Johnnie-boy, but you know I’m talking sense! I’ll pay for it, if you want!”

“Mike, I’m not gay.”

“You don’t have to be for this one.” Sherlock could almost hear the wink that accompanied that statement. He knew that they were drawing closer now (their voices were getting louder), and soon they would round the corner and see him.

It was another two seconds before they did, and Sherlock stood by the streetlight, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was staring. He already knew all there was to know about Mike (twenty-three, newly graduated doctor, fiancée at home), but this new friend—John—was a mystery. So Sherlock stared at him. His hair was messy, blond, and there was a youthful energy to his face that indicated an age of around seventeen. He was training to be a doctor (if you could count work experience as ‘training’), and Mike was his mentor. They were friends, though, obviously, going out for drinks together even though John was technically underage. Although Sherlock knew that the pub would serve anyone over the age of seven if they had the cash.

John stared back, and Sherlock smirked at him, before slowly and deliberately winking. He saw John gulp and that was good, because John was young and attractive, and Sherlock didn’t get to sleep with many people who were young and attractive.

“Okay,” John whispered, but Sherlock heard. His smile grew wider.

Mike handed John the cash, and John shuffled awkwardly towards Sherlock. It was quite cute.

“Hello,” Sherlock greeted him (and John’s eyes grew even wider—Sherlock had a habit of using his voice as a tool for seduction in these situations).

“H-hi. Um. I don’t. I don’t really know how this…works. I mean. I kind of…”

“Shut up,” Sherlock ordered, cutting off the stammering young man. “What happens is that you give me the money and then I do what you like. Well. Sexually. I’m unlikely to murder someone for your benefit.”

“Should I—should I call a taxi?” John asked. He seemed to be gaining some confidence, Sherlock noted: he was bringing himself up to his full height and looking Sherlock straight in the eye. Not many people did that. Interesting.

“You can do whatever you like,” Sherlock smiled. For the first time, he wasn’t sure whether it was fake or not.

John took out his phone.

***

Things were always awkward, to start with. You weren’t allowed to kiss; it was straight down to business: “top or bottom?” being the first gruff words as Sherlock dropped his trousers and pulled off his shirt.

“Um, I’m not really…I mean I’ve never…”

Sherlock sighed. Helping people through their sexuality crisises wasn’t his forte.

“Look, I prefer to bottom, so we’ll go with that. But since this is obviously your first time, I’ll try and make it easier for you, so I’ll ride you. Does that sound okay?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock turned around then, and grinned a little when he saw that John had been staring (the man had hastily averted his eyes at the movement, but he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d tried). 

“Are you sure you want to do this, John?” he found himself asking.

“…No. I’m not sure.”

“Right. Good. You seem nice, John. I don’t want you to do this, either,” Sherlock admitted.

“Don’t you want the money?”

“I need the money,” Sherlock replied simply.

“For cocaine?” John asked. It was a guess, but a good one.

“Yes.”

“You don’t need cocaine.”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock sighed. “With me…I think too much. My mind is a machine, and without stimulation it grows stagnant. Cocaine is the only thing of any interest to me these days. I need it.”

“I’m a medical student,” John replied. “I’ve seen a hundred different drug addicts, but none of them have as much coherency. If they’re under the clutches of the drug when I see them, they’re giggling and they’re just plain weird, and if I meet them when they’ve been away from the drug for a while, they’re sweating and shaking. Which are you? Oh, and…what’s your name?”

“I’m Sherlock. And technically, right now, I would be going through withdrawal already. But I’m stronger than my body. Mind over matter.” Sherlock failed to mention that if he didn’t get cocaine that night, he’d wake up just as bad as any other crazed moron who needed their fix.

“I’m sure that that’s true.” Sherlock could hear the doubt in John’s voice. “But if you didn’t need it, why would you decide to be a prostitute?”

Sherlock blinked, a little stunned at how observant the doctor was. He wasn’t used to anyone he deemed ‘ordinary’ surprising him—he could mark out a fellow genius: Mycroft, Moriarty…but John was not a genius. He was simply… _interested._ In what Sherlock had to say. That was new.

“Okay, fine. But I just…life is _boring_. When I’m sober, nothing is exciting and it’s all so dull! I need…something, otherwise my brain rots.”

“You can have the money.”

“What?”

“Well, can you put some clothes on first?” John requested, and Sherlock grabbed his shirt again. “Good. Um, Mike gave me all of this, and I guess I don’t need it now. So you can have it. I wish you wouldn’t get high, but I don’t really mind. You deserve better than this, having to sleep with people to get their money. So…take it. Please.”

“I don’t understand you,” Sherlock admitted.

“Really? It’s called empathy.”

“That’s a weakness.”

“Look where being strong got you, huh?” John challenged him. “I guess this’ll all go on cocaine, so, um, do something for me? Spend, like, half of it on food, or rent or whatever. Then I’ll know I’ve done a good thing.”

“How will you know?” Sherlock inquired.

“I trust you, I guess. Or…” John grabbed a notepad from the bedside table, and withdrew a pen from his pocket. “This is my phone number. Call me and tell me what you spent it all on. Okay?”

“I will,” Sherlock promised.

“Good. I’ll leave now.”

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock felt a twinge of sadness as John left, but he ignored it. He could, of course, ignore John’s request and spend the money on coke anyway. But something told him that that wouldn’t be okay, that it would be _wrong._

And he wanted to make John feel proud of him.

***

“Hello, John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I spent it.”

“On what?”

“Food. Rent. New clothes. Nicotine patches.”

“You’re a smoker?”

“No, but I need something in my system, so I can think.”

“You didn’t buy any cocaine?”

“No. I haven’t seen Jim all week.”

“He’s your dealer?”

“And my…employer.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I have some money left. You gave me quite a lot, you know. It was…too much, really. So, let me take you out for dinner?”

“Um. Sure.”

***

They went out to dinner (after Sherlock texted John the details, feeling uncharacteristically nervous before pressing send), and although the restaurant was not at all fancy, and it was actually pretty cheap and crummy, Sherlock could see that John was smiling, and that was good enough for him.

They ordered food that was greasy and not at all fulfilling, and they smiled dopily at each other even though Sherlock still didn’t know what love was and John didn’t know what it was to be in love with a man. Their fingertips brushed once or twice, and if it was entirely on purpose then no one mentioned it, and that was okay. Their stares were thick with longing and tension—promises that would be carried through if the other would willingly partake.

Sherlock could feel his mask slipping, could feel himself letting his guard down. Mycroft had always told him to stay distant (but look where that had gotten him), and he knew deep down that if he were to continue with this—whatever _this_ was—he would regret it eventually. He couldn’t be in a relationship, because he would be forced to give it all up: prostitution, cocaine…and really he had no life outside of that. If he gave in to the inevitable demands, he would become dependent on someone else.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t do dependency.

Although, he supposed, he was dependent on Jim. Dependent on cocaine. And, like every stinking human on the face of the planet, he was dependent on money.

That was what made up his mind for him.

They both reached for the check, and Sherlock had to smile.

“You have done enough for me. This is a treat—albeit using your money to begin with, but still. I’ll pay.”

“That’s very—are you sure? I know you didn’t buy any…y’know, and…”

“I’m trying to quit, John. It’s not easy, but I hated feeling weak. Giving control over to something other than myself is something I would have never even considered before my brother’s death. But, more than that…you make me want to change, John. It’s terrifying, really, but I’ve got more self-control than most,” Sherlock said in a rush.

“Hey, Sherlock? I’m proud of you. And if you go back to your old ways, I sincerely hope that I’ll be there, doing my best to stop you.”

“You want to be a part of my life?” Sherlock asked, eyes widening. No one had ever volunteered to be there for him before.

“If you’ll let me,” John smiled sadly, as if he was resigned to the idea of Sherlock saying no.

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed, slightly in awe of the man before him.

“Um, Sherlock. Is there any chance you’ll have sex with me without me paying you?”

Sherlock laughed aloud at that.

“I have to wait until at least the fourth date for that,” he chuckled.

“Does this count as a date?”

“If you want it to…” Sherlock replied.

“Can I kiss you?”

“I’ve never been kissed before,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Never?” John asked incredulously.

“It sounds funny, doesn’t it? I mean: I have—had, actually—sex for a living. And yet I’ve never been kissed.”

“I’d like to change that.”

“Give me a little time first. It’s all just sinking in,” Sherlock admitted.

“Okay. That’s okay,” John said, taking his hand. Sherlock left the cash on the table and pulled John up, towing them both out of the restaurant. When they got outside, rain was just starting to fall, crystalizing in Sherlock’s curls and making them both shiver in the cold. Neither had an umbrella, so Sherlock tipped his head upwards, letting the rain wash his skin clean.

“You know, I don’t actually enjoy it,” Sherlock addressed John, still looking up at the clouds.

“What?”

“Sex. I just…I don’t…I’ve never enjoyed it. Maybe because it wasn’t with the right person, or maybe because…”

“You’re asexual.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I didn’t have much sexual experience previously, you know. But, if I’m honest…”

“I don’t care.”

“You…don’t?”

“No. I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do,” John stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You can kiss me now.”

John surged forwards immediately, as if he had simply been waiting for the instruction (and maybe he had, Sherlock didn’t know). It was almost like the rush he felt after cocaine, although he’d thought that he would never feel that again. In actual fact, it felt a million times better. Just a soft press of lips on lips—it didn’t have to be sexual for Sherlock to enjoy it, and apparently not for John either—and fireworks were exploding inside of him (not literally, Sherlock felt the need to amend to himself. Metaphors had always confused him somewhat.)

“Do you believe in love, Sherlock?” John asked, once he’d pulled away. Sherlock stared at him calculatingly for a few moments, taking a deep breath.

“I’ll get back to you,” he replied.

***

“221b Baker Street. Our new home,” John announced. It was ten years since the day they had met, back when Sherlock had only been seventeen, and John not much older: so ignorant to how strongly they could truly feel towards each other. It was five years since John had found Sherlock lying in a gutter, his relapse strong and hard, sending him spiralling downwards until John had picked him back up again. It was two months since John had asked Sherlock to finally move in with him (two bedrooms, and John really didn’t mind. They shared a bed most nights, but Sherlock sometimes wanted to be left alone. The best part was that John understood that.)

“John?” Sherlock spoke quietly. “I-I never got back to you. And, the truth is—the truth has been for a while now—that I love you.”

“Oh, _finally,_ you twat!” John said, smiling widely. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and pulled him in for a kiss, still as magical as it had been ten years before. “Only took you ten bloody _years_ ,” John mumbled against his boyfriend’s lips.

“Uh, John?”

“Yeah?”

“You love me, too, right?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

It was true that John had never said it, out of fear that he might push Sherlock into saying something he was uncomfortable with, but it had always been there (well, almost always), an undisputable fact that you’d have to be blind not to see.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock conceded, and he smiled. His smiles were less rare in John’s presence, but they were still a treasure that John felt he couldn’t take for granted. He smiled back, taking Sherlock’s hand and stepping back to observe their new house.

Where they would live together, conceivably for the rest of their lives (or until Sherlock got bored and insisted that they move to Sussex to keep bees…or something).


End file.
